


The Hyacinth Man & Other Stories

by Hyacinthz



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Drabble Collection, Multi, other mentioned characters but i plan to only tag those w speaking roles, real brief sole/hancock/cait mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:02:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyacinthz/pseuds/Hyacinthz
Summary: Fallout 4 drabbles focused on my sole survivor, Nat. Prompts from r/fanfiction.





	1. July 14 - November

Nat can’t think of a better time to be born if you’ve gotta. It’s the right kind of cold, that month. And at the end of it, you get turkey and pie. What’s not to love?

He tells this to Deacon’s sunglasses and gets a flat smile back. They’re wading through the Charles, legs freezing where they dip into the slime atop the water, Geiger counter clicking off-time with their steps.

“Cool.” Deacon nods his chin towards a far-off den of dozing ferals. “Hey, check that out. Sitting ducks, that’s poultry. Happy Thanksgiving, and save some for me.” 


	2. July 15 - Crowd

Maybe three’s a crowd, but Hancock and Cait both have greedy hands on him and that can’t be bad.

Back when the world was whole, he used to wonder about it. Those halcyon days meant waking slow with T and Ralphie, watching the sun light the places their bodies peeked from beneath covers and knowing he was home.

Then there was Nora, and Sunny. Nat never kissed Sunny. But if the world hadn’t ended, maybe he would’ve. 

Maybe they’d shack up in the suburbs, raise a kid and dog. And here and now, there’d be no one left to touch.


	3. July 17 - Graduate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 100 words and I managed to steal some from The Second Coming by W.B. Yeats. Read it [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43290/the-second-coming).

Half a degree in poetry means nothing, even if it’s Harvard.

So he signed up mid-semester. He signed up for Anchorage, for the fire and all. It cost a graduation and earned him freedom.

His half a degree in poetry wrenches words from his gut, sometimes. He speaks them to the shattered world and thinks of burnt books propping up furniture. Twenty centuries of stony sleep and what rough beast, indeed? It’s him. It’s him and the half-remembered words all jumbled up in there. It’s him unleashed on the world and isn’t he grateful for what he’s got?


	4. July 19 - Old

They're old by the time spring really starts, that’s how bullshit the weather’s been. But it's the apocalypse, what can you expect?

The hyacinths poke up from the same flower beds as back in college. Maybe they're the same bulbs. The deer can grow irradiated, the humans can grow irradiated, so why not these, too?

Flowers breed memory out of filth; he looks at the bombed out shell of Boston and remembers how things once stood.

Spring hits properly and those hyacinths are ordinary as anything. The only thing unusual about them is how dead they are, and how soon.


End file.
